


Argue

by dearjoanwallace



Category: Matchbox 20 (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 08:45:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10590489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearjoanwallace/pseuds/dearjoanwallace
Summary: The band gets together to decide what to put on their new album, but will they ever agree?





	1. Bent

**Author's Note:**

> Argue 
> 
> by Kellyanne Lynch  
> 25 April 2001, 1:15 - 11:29 PM
> 
> Disclaimer: The events of this story are VERY loosely based off real occurrences; however, this is not exactly how they happened. This is how I imagine it might have happened. I do not know matchbox twenty, am not matchbox twenty, was not matchbox twenty in a past life, and will probably not be matchbox twenty in the future. This story was written as an attempt to improve my writing skills and to humour others and myself. No matchsticks were harmed in the making of this story. Unless you count Paul breaking his ass.
> 
> Summary: The band gets together to decide what to put on their new album, but will they ever agree?
> 
> Rating: PG
> 
> Please e-mail with questions, comments, theories, complaints, or words of wisdom.
> 
> \---------------------------------------------------  
> "We get along so we shouldn't argue" - matchbox twenty, "Argue"

Rob sat down on the back steps of the ranch house. Holding a joint to his lips, he lit it. 'This is f***ing ridiculous', he sighed. This was supposed to be his break, a couple of weeks or so of pure, unadulterated relaxation on his manager Michael's ranch. Instead... sh**, this was more stress than being out on the road!

Taking a deep drag on his joint, Rob gazed onto the horizon. The California sun, a brilliant orange coin, illuminated the starched sands of the west as it dipped behind them. Colours whisked across the sky, somber purples, pinks, and grays, a light show of day's grand finale, its way of saying goodnight to everyone before stepping offstage. Such beauty, such perfection in the sky! Exhaling through a puff of smoke, Rob hung his head. Such perfection, to which he felt he could never aspire.

His dark brown hair clung to his scalp, drenched with the perspiration from a day filled with bitter conflict. He twirled the sweat-encumbered curls that covered the back of his neck. A breeze wafted through his hair, carrying with it Paul's voice, still yelling inside the house. The breeze tickled his damp neck, and he shivered.

Once, this Santa Ynez cattle ranch had carried only joy with its remembrance. Rob's eyes fell upon the place where he and Marisol had been married. Tents had lined the area, glowing with candlelight beneath them. "One big fire hazard," he had called them in jest. He smiled. So romantic though, he had to admit. But all he had needed that day was to be with Mari, just to hold her. Proclaiming his love for her in front of so many people had been a bonus.

"Mari," he whispered into the wind, closed his eyes, and sighed. Of course, Rob was here, in California, while his love was home in New York. He barely ever saw her anymore. 'Damn, what kind of a husband am I?'

"F*** you!" Paul's voice again carried outside. Rob dug the toes of his tennis shoes into the dust. Who was Paul cursing out now? 'I swear, these past couple of days have been one big f***ing mess.' He brought the joint to his lips and breathed in its calming drug.

"Take me away," he whispered to it. "Damn it, get me out of here."

Rob held his head in his hands, the joint swirling smoke over his fingers. Back when they'd just started this band, they had all decided that, if success got in the way of their friendships, the band would go. 'The band will HAVE to go.'

He drew the hand holding the joint to his lips, sucking the last ounce of life it still contained. "Sh**," he sighed, tossing the paper remains to the ground.

Scooting on his backside to the bottom of the steps, Rob glanced out into the distance again. The land was dark, the sky even void of stars. And the sun had left him. She would be back tomorrow, only to leave again, a vicious cycle he knew too well. He wasn't ready to break from his friends, but he was sick of countlessly sliding through this routine with them. And it seemed that the good times were shortening.

Rob lay down in front of the bottom step and stared into the empty expanse of space before sleep overtook him.


	2. Heavy

[Twenty minutes earlier]

Adam slumped against the wall of Michael's recording studio. 'This is f***ing ridiculous.' He held his beautiful green Taylor electric-acoustic guitar, his baby, across his left knee as he glanced around the room. Kyle, his back turned to his bandmates, strummed some made-up tune and hummed along. 'Probably trying to pretend he's not here', Adam speculated with a sigh.

Shaking his head, he turned to Brian. The bass player gazed back at him through tick strands of bleached blond hair. He gave Adam a forced smile before staring back at the floor, hiding again behind his hair. Poor Pookie had NO idea how to handle confrontation. Adam was surprised that his reserved friend wasn't ducked behind an amplifier.

Rob's sigh turned Adam's attention to the lead singer. Rob ran a hand over his hair. His sweat-slicked locks left a residue on his palms that made him cringe. Rob stood cross-armed, leaning against the left-hand side of a blackboard, which was marred by angry scribbles. The dusty beige scrawls beside Rob's head stated 'IDEAS FOR PAUL'S ALBUM'. Beneath it were a list of songs, most of which were barely legible. The word 'HEAVY' filled the entire bottom half of the board.

A deeply hammered chalk line divided the board into two camps. On the right-hand side, the words 'ROB'S ALBUM' were almost embossed along the upper wooden frame. All the chicken scratches below the title ran together, looking more like Japanese than English. A hand beside the last scribble held a piece of chalk, dangling it between the middle and index finger. Adam followed the hand as it moved to scratch its owner's nose. He watched as Paul shifted his weight to his left foot.

Paul made eye contact with Adam, then shifted his focus and took a drag from his cigarette.

Rob and Paul's latest volley of f***-yous and go-to-hells lingered in Adam's mind, those having been the last words spoken before the room stumbled into silence...

Into...unbearable...silence.

Kyle lowered his guitar to the floor and turned to his bandmates. "This is f***ing ridiculous," he muttered.

"Yeah?" Rob shot back. "You're telling me!"

"Look, don't get pissy with Kyle over this!" Paul exclaimed, tossing the chalk back into its metal tray. He scratched the back of his neck. "YOU'RE the one making this hell!"

"Aah!" Rob held the wooden frame of the blackboard as he leaned closer to Paul. He glared at the drummer. "What, now it's my fault?"

"Pushing that friggin' 'Honesty' song?" Paul's eyes widened. "Man, that song is sh**. People would torch the whole friggin' CD if we put that one on it. We'd shame our fans. Besides, we ditched that song last week..."

"WE didn't, baby. YOU ditched it."

Paul rose from his seat on an amp. "NOBODY wants to play it, Rob! Just ask them!" Paul took a drag on his cigarette. "Or do you not care what we think?"

Adam watched as Rob glanced at Brian, then at Kyle. Both were looking down. Rob's eyes met with Adam's. Adam gazed into those eyes, at the overflowing ocean of blue, at the eyes that begged him to come to Rob's defense.

"Paul..." Adam voiced, but had no idea what else to say. His support seemed to fuel Rob just the same.

"Hey, man, I care what they think." Rob leaned back, releasing his grip on the chalkboard. "It's just nobody seems to give a sh** about what I think."

"Oh save the cry story!" Paul exclaimed, sliding off the amp. "We ALWAYS hear what you think, in every friggin' song!"

Rob glared at Paul. "If you don't like my f***ing lyrics," Rob stated, "then why the hell do you insist we keep 'Heavy'?"

"Hey, that's not just your song anymore," Paul drew in a puff of smoke. "We've been busting our asses, getting that song sounding kickass, and NOW you want to pull it! Why the hell didn't you tell us that before?"

"You know, man, f*** you!" Rob kicked over a music stand. Notes and sheet music fluttered to the floor, crinkling as they brushed against one another. "I don't have to explain myself!"

"You do when it involves the rest of us!" Paul retorted as Brian crossed the room. Quietly, the bass player gathering the debris, returning the pages to their proper order.

"Oh f*** you!" Rob yelled, jumping to his feet.

"F*** you!"

"No, f*** you!"

"Would you both shut the hell up?" Adam stepped between the two. Rubbing his forehead, he added, "Now, it's late, we got jack sh** accomplished today, and I don't know about anyone else, but my friggin' head's about to explode. You!" He pointed to Paul. "Sit down! You!" Then to Rob. "Sit down!"

Rob and Paul glanced at one another before doing as they were told.

Adam snatched the chalk from its tray. "This," he gestured toward the board, "is a f***ing mess." He stared at the dividing line between the two headings before he smashed his fist into it. The board rattled and swung backwards, rotating on the pins that held it in the middle. The angry scribbles disappeared, revealing the untainted deep green surface on the other side.

Adam wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the blackboard's wooden frame as he raised the chalk with his right.

'MAD SEASON BY MATCHBOX TWENTY'

When he faced his bandmates again, Adam found Kyle and Brian seated on the floor, staring up at him. Rob and Paul still stood on either side of him, their eyes on the chalkboard.

Adam looked back at the board. "By matchbox twenty," he read, slamming the chalk into each word. Bits of chalk flew around his hand. He turned to his bandmates. "Raise your hand if that's you."

Adam shot his hand over his head. He watched as Kyle and Brian glanced at one another, shrugged, and raised their hands as well. The three looked from Rob to Paul.

Another hand stretched into the air. The four then stared at the remaining bandmember.

Icy blue eyes shot back at them. Rob heaved a sigh. He stomped out of the room, smacking the chalkboard as he passed it. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving his bandmates staring at what now shown on the board.

That hideous dividing line.


	3. Long Day

[During the time of chapter one]

"You'd think we'd get along at LEAST as well as we did when we made the first album," Kyle muttered as he, Paul, Brian, and Adam wandered into the kitchen. 'This is f***ing ridiculous', Kyle thought as he grabbed a beer from the fridge.

"You mean when you didn't used to talk?" Adam chimed in, and Kyle laughed.

"Yeah," he chuckled, "maybe that's asking too much."

Paul pulled open a cupboard and retrieved a bottle of vodka and a wineglass. Filling it to the top, he breathed, "You know, guys, it's my fault."

"'The hell you doing?" Adam grabbed the bottle. Drops of alcohol splashed off the polished wooden counter. He wiped it with a dishcloth. Snatching Paul's glass, Adam began pouring the contents of the glass back into the bottle.

"'The hell YOU doing?" Paul took possession of the bottle and glass again. "Hashbrown, I'm over twenty-one."

"That's too damn much though!" Adam protested as his friend refilled the glass.

Paul knocked back half the glass in one shot. "It might not be enough," he murmured.

Seated at the kitchen table, Kyle nursed his beer. He glanced across the table at Brian, who held one of his own. "Hey, Paul, don't blame yourself. Rob's being the real ass. Damn it!" Kyle slammed his beer can into the table. "He f***ing rejected MY song!" 'A song', Kyle thought, 'that's ironically named Happy.'

Paul shook his head, then chugged the remainder of his vodka. "He didn't reject it, Smooches. He just doesn't think it's ready yet, and he's probably right."

Kyle threw his empty beer can across the room, then stared at the table. "Well if it's not ready, it's because we spent so much f***ing time on a song that Mr. Thomas 'just doesn't want to do anymore'," he whined the second half of the sentence.

Kyle glanced back at Paul, who was reaching for the bottle of vodka. Adam grabbed his hand.

"Paul, that's it! Please, no more."

"Don't tell me what to do!" Paul shot back. His hand wiggled free of Adam's grip and wrapped around the bottle. Adam grabbed the wineglass. Shrugging, Paul unscrewed the cap and drew the bottle to his lips. Adam's hands clenched the bottom of the bottle, and Paul couldn't raise it any further than he had it. He pulled away from Adam, but his friend's grip was tight. Kyle watched as the two stared at one another.

"Please, Paul," Adam's lip movements were barely dipped in sound. "Let me have the bottle. You've had too much already."

"F*** you!" Paul lunged his fist into Adam's stomach, grabbing the bottle with his other hand. Adam staggered back and fell into Brian's lap.

Kyle watched as Adam winced up at Brian, tears welling in his eyes.

"'the hell, Paul!" Kyle stared at the drummer, who was gulping the bottle's poison nectar.


	4. 3 AM, or something like it

[Several hours later]

Paul staggered down the back steps of the ranch house, clenching a bottle of whiskey in his wiry, pasty fingers. Slipping on the last step, he fell on his backside. He sat where he landed, the dew from the grass seeping through the seat of his pants.

"Sh**," he stated to himself and drank from the whiskey bottle. Mid-swig, he found the situation amusing. He laughed, then coughed, then laughed some more. Whiskey trickled down his white T-shirt, staining the collar and streaking down the front. He lowered the bottle and wiped his chin.

Squinting into the murky night, Paul saw the sky brightening before his eyes. The sun, rising behind dismal, low settling clouds, was still making her presence known.

"Damn," Paul mumbled. A long day lay ahead of him, and all he'd had for rest the night before was fitful slumber. Disturbing dreams and a wicked hangover had kept him tossing and turning until several minutes ago, when he had decided to drink off his hangover. The idea was most appealing now, as he sat humming, swaying, and giggling to himself. He chugged some more alcohol.

To his immediate left was a horse pen. A chestnut Morgan stood at attention at the very edge of the fence, seemingly staring at Paul.

"Hi, horsey!" he wiggled his fingers at the Morgan, who snorted. Paul gazed at the white diamond-shaped fur on the horse's forehead. His eyes locked onto it until they hurt. Shaking his head, he turned back to his whiskey and took another swig.

As he lowered the bottle, Paul heard a gentle 'Clunk, clunk! Clunk, clunk! Clunk, clunk!', each time sounding just a little bit louder, and a little bit closer. Paul glanced to his right and saw horse's legs. Following the legs upward, he found the horse's trunk, the horse's face...

And a rider.

Paul wiggled his fingers at the rider. "Well, hey, Rob!" he slurred, setting the bottle beside himself and standing. Wobbling by the stairs, he held the railing.

"'the hell you doing up so early?" Rob furrowed his eyebrows and glared at his friend.

Paul shrugged. "The day starts early on a farm." He gave Rob a crooked smile.

Rob lowered his hands, lying the reigns across his lap. "Not out here to tell me ANOTHER song I screwed up?"

Paul scratched his head. "I do have SOMETHING to say to you..."

"Don't bother," Rob turned away from Paul. "I don't have the energy to deal with this sh** right now." Tightening his grip on the reigns, Rob pulled them to the right. The horse moseyed away with Rob.

Paul unhitched the horse pen door. Ascending the steps and sliding over the horse pen, he landed on the bareback of the Morgan.

"Come on, girl," he chided the horse as he dug his heels into her side. The Morgan stepped forward, following Rob's golden Thoroughbred.

"Wait!" Paul yelled to Rob. The horse plodded along, too slow to ever catch up with Rob's horse, in Paul's opinion. Paul kicked the Morgan's side, and she broke into a gallop, fast approaching Rob...

And fast losing her rider.

"Ah!" Paul clenched the Morgan's chestnut mane with slick, sweaty palms. He felt himself tilting to the left as his fingers lost hold of the mane.

"Rob!" he cried out to his friend. Losing his balance, Paul slipped off the horse. The Morgan galloped onward, leaving her rider lying flat on his back, not moving.


	5. Back 2 Good

Brian sipped hot coffee on the back porch of the ranch house. Gazing into the sky, he saw the sun peek out from behind a dismal cloud, beaming at him. Squinting, Brian smiled back.

His head had been killing him last night, with all the bickering. He had genuinely had a splitting headache. Today, however, his head throbbed with just a little less intensity. Brian sighed. He so hoped that today would be a better day; he couldn't take another yesterday.

Brian's eyes lowered from the now luminescent sky to a pair of shadows approaching from the distance. He adjusted his glasses and swept golden strands of hair out of his face. The two walked with an arm around one another, one figure completely supporting the weight of the other. Their faces came into focus.

"What the hell happened?" Brian exclaimed, bounding down the steps. He looked from Rob to Paul.

"I broke my ass," Paul replied, his legs shaking beneath him. He broke into laughter.

"Pookie," Rob struggled to keep Paul from falling flat on his face. "We need to get him inside."

Brian put Paul's other arm over his shoulder and took some of Paul's weight from Rob. Brian and Rob helped Paul up the steps and led him into the studio. Once through the doors, Rob let go of Paul and quickly set up a mound of pillows on a cushy lavender chair for his injured friend.

Brian helped Paul into the chair. Paul just sat there, glassy eyed, staring into space.

"So what happened?" Brian turned to Rob, who shrugged.

"Paulie came after me on a horse, riding f***ing bareback!" Rob pointed out the window. "Which would be bad enough if he weren't so f***ing smashed!" His eyes wandered to the battered blackboard. Beneath the heading 'mad season by matchbox twenty', thirteen songs were listed in crisp handwriting. "What's this?" he gestured toward it.

Brian sighed. "Last night, after you took off and Paul was asleep, the rest of us came up with this list."

Rob lit a cigarette. "Without me and Paul?"

"Don't you think we got sick of hearing you two fight?" Brian yelled. Holding a hand to his head, he sighed.

"I'm sorry, Rob," Paul voiced, and the two turned to him. "I shouldn't have mocked that nice song you wrote, even if I thought it was sh*tty." His eyes filled with tears.

"Actually," Brian added softly, "the rest of us think it needs some work too and therefore shouldn't be on the next album."

Rob nodded and took a drag off his cigarette. Sighing through the smoke, he said, "Ah'ight. I'll work on it some more."

"We took some songs from your list, some songs from Paul's, and a couple that the three of us really wanted on there. You ready to consider them?"

Rob nodded. "Yeah, what are they?"

Brian read the list off the chalkboard. "'Bed of Lies', 'Black and White People', 'If You're Gone', 'Bent', 'Mad Season' of course, 'Crutch', 'You Won't Be Mine', 'Last Beautiful Girl', 'The Burn', 'Leave', 'Stop', 'Heavy', and 'Rest Stop'."

Kyle and Adam wandered into the studio, as Rob puffed on his cigarette.

"You kept 'Heavy' on there?" Rob raised his eyebrows and sighed.

Kyle shook his head. "Rob, the rest of us love it. We've worked so hard on it..."

"'Heavy' rocks," Paul added, stabbing an index finger into the air. He squinted at Rob.

"And you haven't give us any real reason not to put it on the album," Kyle sat back in his seat.

Rob flicked ash into an ashtray to his right. He stared at the ember that glowed on the end of his cigarette. "You wouldn't want to play a song called 'Heavy' anymore," he breathed, "if critics were calling YOU fat."

The studio fell into silence. Brian, standing at the blackboard, drew the eraser across the word 'Heavy'.

Drawing his cigarette to his lips, Rob inhaled. Paul stared at him, then at each other member of the band, before breaking into a fit of laughter.

"What?" Adam glanced over at Paul, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't mind him," Rob replied. "He broke his ass."

"I think we should put 'Angry' on the album!" Paul exclaimed. "I know I thought it sucked before, but it's stuck in my head now." Paul turned to Rob and sang, "And it's good that I'm not angry..."

"I need to get over," Rob crooned. Together, they sang, "And it's good that I'm not angry anymore."

Brian looked from Kyle to Adam, holding a piece of chalk to the board. The two nodded, and joined Rob and Paul for the first verse of the song. Smiling, Brian added 'Angry' to the list 'mad season by matchbox twenty' as he sang along with his bandmates.

May 23, 2000, matchbox twenty released their new album.

 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [NOTE: This is my first historically-based MB20 story, where I actually did research for some of the details. Please tell me what you think!]


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